Brenda Hiatt (15 page)

“Yes, I know.” Jack kept both voice and face innocently solemn, but sent Nessa a sidelong glance that set her blushing again.

“Claudia, it appears your son has turned out rather well after all,” Lady Gwendolyn commented then.

Lady Branch now stepped forward, with the warmest smile Jack had ever seen her wear. “Indeed he has. And I thank you for it, my dear.” She gave Nessa a quick peck on the cheek before turning to Jack. “I can honestly say I’m proud of you—Jack.”

For a moment, he found himself speechless. Since her arrival, his mother had called him nothing but Lord Foxhaven, and even in his youth she had despised his nickname, insisting upon “John.” Something else to put to Nessa’s credit.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said after a pause. “I’m pleased to hear you say so.” He bent to kiss her cheek, and was surprised when she squeezed his arm in
return. It was not much, perhaps, but it was a start.

As his first full day as a married man progressed, Jack reflected with satisfaction that so far he had no cause for regrets. Nessa was the ideal hostess, dividing her attention among the house guests and taking gracious leave of those departing. Already she was consulting with Cook about the menus and making a few changes in servants’ schedules to improve efficiency.

And, of course, she had proven even more delightful in bed than he’d envisioned. What a wedding night! Jack had been with several world-renowned courtesans over the years, women known both in England and abroad for their skill, but never had he been so well satisfied so many times in one night. What Nessa lacked in experience, she more than made up in enthusiasm.

Watching her skillfully settle a debate between Lord Peter and Harry that had threatened to become heated, he frowned. A night like that after a year and more of abstinence was bound to have certain physical effects upon her. He’d have to be extremely gentle tonight, or even desist altogether—if she’d let him!

As though feeling his eyes upon her, she turned just then and gave him a saucy half-wink when no one was looking. Jack grinned, but hastily seated himself next to Lord Peter to conceal her effect upon him. He’d let her decide what she was ready for tonight, he decided. Who was he to deny her, after all?

That evening, as Jack was on the point of knocking on the door to Nessa’s chamber, a tap sounded on the
other side. Opening it, he stared, too overcome for the moment to speak.

Clad in the low-cut gown and feathered mask she’d worn the night he met her, Nessa stood in the doorway.

“May I come in?” At his feeble nod, the vision swept past him, then paused to survey the room. “Not quite the monkish cell I was led to believe, Brother Eligius. Why! What a big bed you have.”

Jack emerged from his momentary trance and grinned. “The better to please you with, my Lady Monique.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips. “Observe this poor friar overcome by the honor of your visit. How might I be of service?”

Her brown eyes sparkled at him through the mask. “I have come to you for religious instruction, of course.” When he blinked in surprise, she continued, “I should like to learn more about the Song of Solomon. ’Tis a facet of my theological education which has been sadly neglected, and I have reason to believe you are well suited to fill the gaps in my knowledge.”

He began to chuckle. “My lady, you have come to the right monk.” Tightening his grip on her hand, he led her toward the bed.

Jack proceeded to instruct Nessa on ways of pleasuring each other that would not exacerbate her soreness—to which she only reluctantly admitted.

“I promised not to hurt you, remember?” he said when she insisted it did not matter. “I want you to think of our marriage bed only in terms of pleasure, never of pain.”

“For enough pleasure, I’m willing to endure a modicum of pain,” she assured him, “but if ’tis possible to forego the pain entirely, so much the better.”

He demonstrated that it was, pleasuring her with touch and tongue and giving her subtle cues on how to do likewise for him. She proved an apt pupil—so apt that though they’d both skimped on sleep the night before, neither felt inclined to rest until well after midnight. Then they fell into an exhausted but happy slumber that again lasted until the morning was well advanced.

By two hours past noon, the remainder of the house guests had gone, save Peter, Harry, and the Creamcrofts. Jack found himself looking forward to a quiet Yuletide with just his bride and closest friends. Time enough later to contemplate their trip to Paris and the complications awaiting him there. For now, he could relax.

He was rather surprised, therefore, to hear a loud knock at the door only half an hour after the last guests had taken their leave. Curious, he rose languidly from his place beside Nessa on the drawing room sofa, where he’d been awaiting tea along with the others. Peering into the hall, he was in time to hear a familiar voice say to Hackett, “I’ve an urgent message for Lord Foxhaven from the Duke of Wellington. I understand he is in residence.”

Jack strode forward, his mind quickly shifting from indolence to curiosity. “I am indeed, Mr. Woolsey.”

At once the man reached into his pocket and extended an envelope to him. “I thank you. Hackett will see that you are provided with the means to refresh yourself. Pray join me in the library in half an hour.”

A moment later, seated at his desk by the crackling library fire, Jack read through Wellington’s latest missive with a deepening frown.

Two weeks earlier, Lord Liverpool had written to the duke to warn him of another assassination plot and the official opinion that his situation in Paris was now judged unacceptably dangerous. As soon as a plausible reason could be formulated, one that would not smack of retreat, Wellington would be recalled, probably to take a post at the Congress of Vienna now underway.

Though Jack would no longer be able to serve as originally requested, Wellington felt he could still be of use here in England. The assassination plot, incredibly, appeared to be of British origin, and two of the primary suspects were known to have spent time in the company of Miranda Dempsey after Jack left Paris in August. Now that Jack had attained a degree of social influence as Lord Foxhaven, the duke felt he might be in a position to extract valuable information from Mrs. Dempsey—information that could bring these traitors to justice and protect England from any further outrage.

Jack scowled down at the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk. Though he typically did not say so, Wellington’s life was very likely on the line here. If Jack refused to act, these would-be assassins might very well follow the duke to Vienna, to carry out their dastardly
plot there. But to accede to Wellington’s wishes would be to betray the wedding vows he had taken only two days since—and his grandfather’s wishes, as well.

What the devil was he to do?

His struggle was sharp but brief. Whatever befell him personally, Jack could not refuse his erstwhile commander’s request. He would simply have to devise a way to extract the necessary information from Miranda while doing minimal damage to his marriage and reputation. A strategist of his caliber should be able to manage it—shouldn’t he?

By the time Mr. Woolsey joined him several minutes later, his response to the Duke of Wellington was already written.

A few moments later, Jack reentered the drawing room to resume his seat beside Nessa, just as though his life had not suddenly been turned upside down. “It occurs to me,” he said casually, “that you haven’t yet seen the rest of the grounds. The weather has turned clear for the moment. What say you to a walk?”

“That would be lovely,” Nessa exclaimed. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll go up to change my shoes and fetch a wrap. Perhaps the others would like to come too?”

“No, no,” said Lady Creamcroft, correctly interpreting Jack’s quick frown. “You two newlyweds run along.”

Though her phrasing only added to his burden, Jack smiled his gratitude. For what he needed to say to Nessa, he preferred they be alone.

Nessa took a deep breath of the bright, wintry air. Lovely as Fox Manor was, she’d begun to feel a bit enclosed. Some outdoor exercise was just what she needed. “What’s beyond that small rise over there?” she asked, pointing.

“The east end of the orchard, with a brook and small wilderness beyond. It’s quite pretty in summer, but I doubt it’s much to look at now. There’s a path, but parts of it may be muddy.”

“I’m game if you are.” Alone with Jack, she could shed her mantle of propriety for awhile—not that it was so onerous now, with most of the guests gone.

“Off we go, then,” he said, stepping out at a fairly brisk pace. In five minutes they crested the rise, and in two more they were out of sight of the house. Both slowed their pace then, in unspoken agreement.

Nessa chuckled. “I believe we’ve successfully escaped. Is that the wilderness you spoke of, off to our right?”

Jack nodded, his expression unexpectedly serious.
Folding her gloved hands over his arm, Nessa regarded him curiously. After a walking a minute or two in silence, he spoke.

“Nessa, were you…very much looking forward to Paris?”

She immediately noticed his use of the past tense, and swallowed. He meant to go without her. Perhaps he had intended it all along. Despite a crushing sense of disappointment, pride forced her to say, “A bit, but not so very much. Why?”

He regarded her for a long moment, but she refused to meet his eyes, afraid of what her own might reveal. Instead, she gazed ahead as though trying to spot the brook and held her breath.

“There has been a change in plans. The Duke of Wellington is to leave Paris for Vienna shortly, so my presence is no longer needed.”

Nessa released her breath and lifted wide eyes to his face. “You’re not going to Paris?” He shook his head, and relief washed through her. He wasn’t leaving her behind after all! “That visitor, just now,” she exclaimed with sudden insight.

“It was the message from Wellington, yes. So you don’t mind too terribly?”

She smiled up at him. “I did rather wish to see what all the fuss was about, but I’ll be happy to stay in England, as long as I am with you, Jack. Thank you for telling me right away.”

His nod was rather brusque, she thought, as though something in her answer displeased him, though he
only said, “Good, good.” He lapsed into silence then, as they continued on their way, leaving her to wonder at his reaction.

Had she been too outspoken about her happiness at being with him? Though they’d spent hours getting to know each other physically, little had been said between them of feelings. While she felt certain that Jack’s fondness for her went beyond simple lust, perhaps he was not yet ready for emotional declarations—which she had come perilously close to making just now.

To demonstrate that it had already passed from her mind, she made a general comment about the extent of the orchard, and he replied in kind. She would
not
allow herself to brood upon the subject. No talk of love had ever entered into her agreement with Jack, nor his with her. ’Twould be absurd to allow sentiment to mar the happiness she had found thus far in marriage.

Compared to her first marriage, to countless marriages she’d seen, theirs had the potential to be exceedingly pleasant, not to mention exciting. That should be good enough for anyone.

Shouldn’t it?

That evening, after supper, Jack decided to bring Harry and Peter into his confidence, as part of his decision concerned them. Ushering them into the library, he poured a small measure of brandy for each of them before beginning.

“I received another missive from Wellington today.
He’s had wind of my title, and now feels I can serve him better here in England, as I have property interests to attend to.”

Harry sat up straighter than Jack had believed him capable this late in the evening. “The devil he did! Rescinded your invitation to Paris? Oh, hard luck, old boy! And after you already got yourself leg-shackled and everything. Well, at least you got the money signed over—didn’t you?”

Jack nodded, smiling at his friend’s genuine distress on his behalf. “Yesterday afternoon. I’m not nearly so devastated as you seem to be, I assure you. And you won’t be, either, once I’ve told you the sequel.”

He settled himself into a chair near the fire. “Wellington is going to Vienna, and asked my recommendations for a post or two with him there. I’ve already dispatched my suggestions. I doubt not you’ll be hearing from him before many weeks have passed.”

Harry choked on the sip of brandy he’d injudiciously taken as Jack dropped his bombshell. Coughing and sputtering, eyes streaming, he nevertheless managed a grin. “Damn, that was good of you, Jack,” he said when he could. “Even if Old Nosey laughs and tosses your recommendation in the fire, which is not unlikely, it was a handsome thing for you to do.”

“That it was,” agreed Lord Peter, getting up to slap Harry on the shoulder. “I congratulate you, though I doubt not you’ll make poor use of the opportunity. Vienna’s even worse than Paris, from what I hear.” His tone was only half jesting.

“All depends on your perspective,” Harry retorted. “I intend to make
very
good use of some of the opportunities to be found in Vienna—if I get the chance.” He couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

Pleased with the result of his news, Jack grinned back at him, then turned to Peter. “You could always go along to keep an eye on our boy, you know. I did mention your suitability as well.”

Lord Peter looked alarmed, then thoughtful. “Should the offer come, I’ll give it some consideration. But tell us, Jack, what has Wellington in mind for you to do here in England? Tending your fields is all very nice for the economy, I suppose, but surely it’s not all he mentioned?”

Caught off guard, Jack hesitated, then decided against dissembling to these two who knew him best. “No, he seems to think I hold a degree of influence over someone who may have information on certain traitors. He wishes me to exert it.”

“Miranda Dempsey, I’ll be bound!” exclaimed Harry, startling Jack with his perspicacity. Drink clearly hadn’t fuddled his wits completely. “Heard she was thick with Jameson and Cranshall, who I never trusted a hairsbreadth.”

Jack merely inclined his head slightly. “I’m impressed. It appears my recommendation was more astute than even I guessed.”

But Lord Peter was frowning. “You didn’t agree, surely, Jack! You’ve been married but two days, after all.”

“Puts a new twist on the term ‘affairs of state,’ don’t it?” quipped Harry, earning a glare from both of the others.

“I didn’t agree to a dalliance with Miranda, no. But I did offer to find out what I could,” Jack admitted, shifting uncomfortably in his well-upholstered chair.

Peter regarded him shrewdly. “Still can’t bear to let the Iron Duke down, can you? He can’t have known about your marriage, though, or he’d never have suggested it.”

“Yes, I know. Still…I thought perhaps I could find out something of use, without, er, resuming a relationship with Miranda. She hasn’t given up, you know.”

Peter snorted. “That I can well believe. If she can’t have your name, she’ll settle for your money. But think, Jack!” He was all earnestness now. “How will it look to your wife if you remain on friendly—if not intimate—terms with a former mistress?”

That was the very problem that had plagued Jack since first reading the duke’s letter. “I’ll simply make certain she doesn’t hear of it,” he replied, with more confidence than he felt. “In any event, I needn’t do anything about it one way or the other just yet. We don’t return to London until after the holidays.”

They seemed content with that, and the conversation turned back to the Congress of Vienna and the latest news to come out of it. Jack was just as glad. Weighty matters of national security were far less unsettling than those pertaining to his marriage—and his feelings about it.

The next two weeks passed almost too quickly for Nessa, so enjoyable was this Christmas season, unmarred by the heavy puritanical overtones of all her previous ones.

She found preparing gift baskets of food and other necessities for the poorer villagers particularly satisfying. Together, she and Jack drove or walked about the lands beholden to Foxhaven, delivering the baskets along with well wishes, in what he told her had long been a Foxhaven Christmas custom.

At Fox Manor itself, she reveled in the baking, roasting, and hanging of greenery, which reached a frenzied peak on Christmas Eve. Prudence, however, voiced some reservations.

“Ought you really to condone such things, Nessa?” she asked as they watched the hanging of yet another enormous kissing bough, this one in the morning room. “Father always said such things were pagan barbarisms.”

“He said that of the yule log as well, Prudence, but we intend to have one tonight—in fact, here come the men now from their expedition to find a suitable one. Why do you not ask Philip what he thinks of these traditions?”

Prudence obediently approached her husband, where he had paused under the just-hung mass of greenery, ribbons, and mistletoe. To Nessa’s delight, her brother-in-law was not at all slow to take advantage of time-honored custom, reaching up to pluck a mistle
toe berry before claiming a resounding kiss from his startled wife.

“Philip!” Cheeks as scarlet as the ribbons above them, Prudence glanced wildly about at the appreciative onlookers.

“I believe you may take that as an answer to the question you were about to ask,” Nessa suggested wickedly. Prudence sent her a speaking glance, but then she smiled shyly up at her husband.

“
Have
you felt deprived of Christmas traditions these past few years, my lord?” she asked.

Philip encircled his wife’s shoulders with an arm and gave her a quick hug. “Only a bit, my dear. Not enough to make you uncomfortable over. I know you were not brought up to them.”

Prudence’s brow furrowed prettily as she considered his words, but she said nothing. Shortly thereafter, the men went back outdoors to strip the remaining branches from the yule log before bringing it in, and Nessa took the opportunity for a few more words with her sister on the subject.

“Are you still opposed to
celebrating
Christmas, Prudence? Everyone else seems to enjoy it enormously.”

Again her sister looked thoughtful. “Yes, they do. Even Philip.” Nessa had been pleased to note that she often called her husband by his Christian name now, unless many people were present.

“Perhaps ’tis not such a pagan thing to do after all,” Nessa suggested. “It occurs to me that many of the traditions Father despised involve charity to one’s fellow
man—Boxing Day, gift baskets to the poor, that sort of thing. How can such customs possibly violate the spirit of the season?”

Prudence nodded. “I believe you may be right, Nessa. Father, for all his virtue, was not a particularly charitable man.”

Though she said nothing more, Nessa took great hope from that statement, the first one critical of their father that she’d ever heard Prudence utter. Yes, her sister was well on her way to becoming her own person—and a far happier one, she suspected.

Celebrating with the villagers and servants in the biggest of the barns on Boxing Day, Nessa found that Jack and Philip enjoyed children as much as she and Prudence did. She watched with delight as they carried a succession of little boys about on their shoulders and danced with every little girl old enough to stand.

When the motley group of local musicians struck up a waltz, Jack charmed the assembly by dancing it with his wife. Nessa was pleased to see that most of the local lasses appeared to have accepted her already. Glancing to her right, she was even more pleased—and amazed—to see Prudence and Philip waltzing!

“You were splendid!” she declared to them when the dance was over. “However did you convince her to learn, Philip?”

Her brother-in-law chuckled. “Actually, it was her suggestion. It began with a private lesson in a corridor at the Hightower ball, followed by—” But at this point
he was silenced by a poke in the ribs from a blushing—but smiling—Prudence.

“No matter. I’m happy for you both,” said Nessa sincerely. For a moment she felt the faintest twinge of old envy, but pushed it aside.

Time enough once the festivities were over to worry about the emotional state of her own marriage. For now, she was content with the novel joys of the season—and of the marriage bed, where her education continued apace.

At times, Nessa almost wondered how she could ever have found lovemaking distasteful. Then she would remember Lord Haughton and shudder, turning to Jack with renewed gratitude for everything he’d shown her marriage could hold. If a tiny voice murmured,
everything but love
, she ignored it. She and Jack had affection and trust, which was surely more than many couples shared.

Throughout the Twelve Days of Christmas, they discovered more and more interests in common. Nessa beat Jack at whist, and he taught her to play vingt-et-un and euchre. When the weather permitted, they took more and longer walks until she felt familiar with most of the Foxhaven estate and longed to see it in other seasons. Never much of a horsewoman, Jack taught her some of the finer points of riding until she began to enjoy the exercise and even earned his grudging praise.

When sleet drove everyone indoors, they discussed books. To her surprise, Jack had read most of the same ones she had, with both professing a fondness for the
tales of Walter Scott—novels of the sort Nessa had always been obliged to read in secret.

All too soon, Twelfth Night arrived. On the morrow, January seventh, they were all to head back to London. The decorations were taken down and, after dinner, the Twelfth Cake was brought in to close the holiday season.

Jack raised his glass. “To good times and good friends. May we often gather again in the future.”

All drank to that, Harry draining his glass as was his wont and signaling the servant to refill it. He then lifted his own wineglass for a toast. “To our host, Jack, the best of good friends. May Wellington’s faith in you be justified, as well as yours in me. I wish you the best of both worlds,” he concluded, with a broad wink.